


Drinking Song Stumble

by grandin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, boys are just idiots, brief mentions of abuse, drunken escapades which no one remembers thank God, so there's blood and biting but not enough to warrant graphic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandin/pseuds/grandin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You wanna fight me?” Sam asked, slowly, tasting the words. They felt sticky and odd, mixing with the Daniels on his tongue. He could feel Nick’s mouth against his neck, biting the skin there, just hardly. Only a little skim of teeth, enough that Sam probably imagined it. Maybe.</p><p>“Fuck yeah,” Nick said, his smile wide and teeth cold against Sam’s sweaty skin. “Let’s get into a fuckin’ fight,”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allthekingsham](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=allthekingsham).



> A coda to The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot. Ham and I got talking, a tangent presented itself and I'm weak to these idiots.

Bad weather in Palo Alto wasn’t common. Clear skies and decent forecasts were much more the area’s cup of tea, but when it decided to go ass up, it didn’t do so gently.

Midterms were waiting around the corner on filthy haunches and Sam only had intentions to stay a few hours at Nick’s while Dean holed up back in the house. The Impala was having issues, an occasion Dean never took lightly, and Led Zeppelin blasted at 2 pm really didn’t do Sam any favors.

But two hours in, the rain came, giving hell to the windows and dropping the apartment down a few degrees. Nick rolled in around 6, drenched and miserable looking, and greeted Sam by sliding his cold, wet hands into the comfort of Sam’s blanket cocoon. Sam screeched, a very manly noise if he did say so himself, and tried to swat away Nick’s clammy, unforgiving corpse palms, only to have them slip further and back. Nick’s fingers slipped into Sam’s hair, pressed up against his nape. Above him, Sam heard Nick sigh, and the weight now on his chest shifted to get more comfortable.

“You’re a heathen,”

“I can’t handle when you talk dirty to me, darlin’, I really can’t,” Nick murmured. He was a lot closer than Sam expected him to be, a cold nose infiltrating Sam’s warm little safe haven to press against his neck. Sam shuddered, but he wasn’t quite sure it was just from the chill, and gave a half hearted shove against Nick.

“You’re freezing.” Nick’s fingers delved a little deeper against Sam’s skin, almost defensively.

“I know what could warm you up,” Nick offered, too gently to be trusted. Sam eyed the tuft of messy blond hair pressed haphazardly against his cheek and puffed a breath to push it away from his nose where it was starting to irritate him.

“I’m not having sex with you,” Sam reminded Nick, and he was responded with a slightly strained chuckle which Sam amounted to the thick bedspread Nick must be smothering himself in.

“Not what I was thinking, really,” Nick murmured after a moment. “Sure, something will be hard, but I was thinking more along the lines of whiskey. Or old Jack Daniels? It’s been a while, we should say hello if we’re gonna have our lips around him all--”

“Are you incapable of not being crude?” Sam asked, shoving his weight upwards suddenly, tossing Nick over the edge of the couch and unceremoniously onto the floor. Sam sure as hell didn’t laugh when he heard Nick yelp in shock, really didn’t get any sort of amusement in seeing a man in his late thirties lying on the ground looking completely surprised and beside himself. No, not at all, because that would make Sam seem rude, and he was everything but.

Nick got his revenge, though, when he used Sam’s exposed ankle as a support to push himself back onto his feet. Sam squawked and lashed his offended foot out, but Nick had danced out of his reach with a devilish cackle.

Sam, stubborn as could be, remained in his bundle while Nick obnoxiously whistled and trounced about the kitchen behind him.

“Ice?” Nick called, too loudly, and that was Sam’s breaking point. He sat up, pointedly tossed his arm over the back of the couch and schooled Nick with a bitch face that rivaled Medusa’s scaley glare. Nick smiled over a glass of some brown and strong looking, taking a sip with an innocent quirk of his brows.

“Come on now, darlin’, don’t look at me with those bedroom eyes and then not do damn a thing,” Nick murmured, honey sweet like the liquor on his lips, making them shine in a way that Sam was definitely not staring at. His teeth flashed as he took a longer sip, sighing in a mix of displeasure and approval, and something in Sam snapped.

Sam was on his feet, miraculously not tripping on the comforter like a fool on his way to the kitchen. Sam took the offered bottle from Nick’s loose fingers, pulling a swig straight from the source and immediately regretting it. He coughed, less than he probably wanted to, and made a face at Nick’s stupid grin.

“What?”

“Nothing, didn’t know we were going so fast is all,” Nick said, placing the glass in the sink and coming back to grab the bottle in one smooth motion. Sam frowned. whether from the alcohol still singing his throat and warming his stomach or Nick’s wording.

“Are you thirteen?” Sam demanded, snatching the bottle from Nick’s hand.

Nick shrugged one shoulder and leaned against the edge of the island. “Mm, off by nineteen years, but sure, if nobody’s counting,”

Sam tipped his head back, bottle firmly pressed to his lips and eyes on the ceiling to ignore the glint in Nick’s eyes.

Everything got that warm haziness around the edges halfway through the bottle for Sam. Nick was working on the second by the time Sam and him ended up on the couch, long limbs crisscrossed over each other in some messy, slightly uncomfortable way that was perfectly fine for the both of them.

Nick wordlessly tipped the bottle towards Sam, who refused it with a loud groan. “‘m already drunk,” Sam muttered, and Nick shrugged.

“Lightweight,” he said with a wet cough. Sam hmm’d in response, body tucked awkwardly over itself to fit into the corner of the couch. Nick’s feet pushed out further, one of them nestling nicely on top of Sam’s stomach while the other bracketed him into the couch. Sam grumbled nonsensically to himself and got a large hand around Nick’s ankle, moving it so that his heel didn’t dig so hard into Sam’s ribs. Once satisfied, Sam wiggled just a little bit and sighed.

“I’m uncomfortable,” Nick announced, and Sam squeezed his warm fingers into the thin skin of Nick’s ankle. There was a little scar there, faint, pale, and pearled with time, almost nonexistent to an unobservant eye, just over the little sharp arch of bone. Sam ran a finger over it and Nick shuddered.

“You’re a fuckin’...ffurnace,” Nick told Sam, waving the bottle around vaguely. “And your hands are huge,”

“Maybe you just have small ankles,” Sam suggested. Nick rolled his eyes.

“My ankles are not fuckin’ small, Samantha,” Nick griped, but went quiet when Sam wrapped a hand loosely around Nick’s ankle, well encompassing it with even a bit of space in between his fingers.

“You have the hands of a goddamn giant,” Nick refuted, and Sam grinned, reckless and big. Nick scoffed, lurching forward to clumsily unhook Sam’s stupidly long fingers and cradle his massive hand in Nick’s own. Nick’s hand was smaller in comparison, shockingly pale, and cold to the touch. Sam realized dimly that he was sweating.

Nick rubbed a thumb over Sam’s broad palm and huffed. “Y’got good fightin’ hands,” he murmured, turning Sam’s hand over and pushing his fingers into a loose fist. “Fuck, they’re like fuckin’ boxing gloves,” Nick muttered. He was bent over, head bowed and tilted in a way that didn’t look very comfy. Sam leaned forward more, gave his shoulder for Nick to rest his head on, which he did without a thought.

“John was a boxer,” Sam mentioned, and Nick craned his head a bit to look at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

“Your dad?”

“Hm.”

“Don’t know shit ‘bout boxing,” Nick said, a more polite way of saying he had no clue who Sam was talking about regardless if he knew boxing or not.

“He was pretty good,” Sam continued anyways. “Till he lost,”

Nick nodded, thumbs rubbing absently over Sam’s knuckles. “Learned how to fight in the marines,” Nick offered, which Sam regarded with a soft sound. “Probably couldn’t be in a ring, don’t fight fair,”

“Shithead,” Sam murmured. It was almost affectionate, and it made Nick laugh, soft and quiet through his nose.

“Oh, you can do better?”

“Fuck yeah,” Sam shrugged his free shoulder casually. “Boxed for ‘bit, wasn’t m’thing,” Sam slurred into Nick’s ear, breath warm and humid against Nick’s freezing, freezing skin. God, how could someone be so cold?

“How long?”

“Hn?”

“Said how long. D’you box,” Nick held up Sam’s own hand as some sort of reminder. Sam frowned a little in thought.

“Took a few classes. Dean stuck to it more ‘n me, an’ Dad made us quit when’e lost.” Sam mumbled, and Nick nodded. There was a scar running along the line of Sam’s lower arm, right down the ridge of his ulna and stopping a bit below his elbow. He got it the night John lost, earned by the sharp edge of a beer bottle that broke against him. Sam didn’t like to remember, so he didn’t. He was drunk enough that it worked, and instead he focused on the column of Nick’s neck.

“Mm. You still any good?”

Sam frowned. “Course I am. You met Dean?”

Nick grinned, a bright flash of teeth that shined like a beacon in the too dim house. The light was gone, the rain still falling in sheets outside, and the room was chilly but Sam and Nick were warm in each other’s space.

“Prove it,”

Sam’s brow creased deeper. He really was too drunk to process this, even more so that he was actually considering it when the details were turned over enough in his soused brain. God, he needed to be drunker.

“You wanna fight me?” Sam asked, slowly, tasting the words. They felt sticky and odd, mixing with the Daniels on his tongue. He could feel Nick’s mouth against his neck, biting the skin there, just hardly. Only a little skim of teeth, enough that Sam probably imagined it. Maybe.

**  
** “Fuck yeah,” Nick said, his smile wide and teeth cold against Sam’s sweaty skin. “Let’s get into a fuckin’ fight,”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of blood, nothing too graphic. I'm a wimp, so if I can handle it, you're alright. Also, some sexy times but nothin' happens really, sorry folks. Have fun.

Sam mentioned at some point that they weren’t smashed enough for this, and Nick seemed to produce that second bottle of Jack from thin air in response. It only took Sam a few more easy pulls to get him off the couch, Nick helping him drain the bottle for the hell of it. He was drunk enough for this a long ass time ago, but if it was going to be any fun, Nick had to be as pickled as Sam.

“How do we--how does this even work,” Sam had both hands on Nick’s shoulder, squinting at him through the lightless din. Nick was shockingly steady on his feet, keeping himself and Sam upright even as they swayed ever so slightly.

“Well,” Nick pulled Sam forward a bit, back level when he started leaning to far back. “We just. Fight.”

“Rules?”

“None,” Nick said, and he clocked Sam good in the nose.

Sam stumbled, shocked, but managed to not fall back and over like a drunken idiot. He regained his leverage and something in his face changed. His stance switched, his feet shifted more surely on the ground. He raised his hands loosely in front of him, a boxer’s stance, and Nick matched it with his own which was much looser and lighter on his feet.

They moved wordlessly around each other, swept deep into some alcohol-fight induced trance. Nick made the first move, swinging almost blindly. Sam ducked but was met with a second and third quick punch, one to gut and cheek. Sam grunted and stumbled, but held his ground.

They didn’t speak. Nick was faster, landed most of his hits while Sam took them or dodged. Nick’s hands were stinging by the fifth punch to Sam jaw, but Sam held strong, and Nick growled impatiently.

“God dammit, punch back already you--”

Sam’s fist came in fast and sudden, a fucking comet of pain and shock right into Nick’s mouth, so hard his teeth clinked violently into the soft meat of his lower lip. He fell back with a startled grunt, his feet stumbling over themselves, and he was tipping too far to the left, falling, with a bloody yelp.

Sam’s hands caught his shirt suddenly, yanking him back up. They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, eyes wide and pupils blown. Blood was dribbling steadily from Nick’s lip and Sam’s nose was a red mess. Neither knew who moved first, but then they were kissing, messy and hungry.

Nick hissed, got both hands around Sam’s shirt when he pulled closer, and bit down hard on the lip under his own. Sam groaned, a low, beautiful noise, and it felt so damn good to hear. Nick did it again, shoved his tongue into Sam’s mouth, tasted Sam’s blood and his own, and then the wall was pressed against his shoulder blades. Sam was in his space, Sam was in everywhere; his breath, his tongue, the skin of his hips which Sam dug his too big, too fucking hot fingers into. Nick broke the kiss with a wet gasp and Sam locked his lips around the junction of his neck and shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise. Nick made a loud, embarrassing noise, head canting back shamelessly, but he was too damn drunk and high on adrenaline to care.

At some point Sam bit him again, and Nick fought back, hands diving into Sam’s stupidly long hair to push his head aside and bite down hard on his shoulder. Sam snarled into Nick’s skin and hooked Nick’s leg around one hip, hard-ons slotting nicely together. Nick canted his hips up sharply, both of them shuddering, but Nick moved Sam out of the way to punch him hard in the side.

Sam shoved Nick back and got a good, solid hit into Nick’s jaw, hard enough that his teeth clacked, his mouth filled with his own blood again and his head sang with a painful twinge.

“Fuckyou,” Sam slurred on principle, thumping Nick back against the wall, once. Nick’s breaths were coming out ragged and sharp, chest heaving. “I win,” Sam announced.

“Nn,” was all Nick managed, but Sam pulled him in and shoved him back hard. “Wha’s that?”

“Said you win, asswipe,” Nick managed, but only half the words came out, the important ones at least. Sam’s grip slackened and they slumped against each other. Nick let Sam lean against him, that stupid boy’s weight pinning him to the wall, until his bladder got too tight and he pushed at Sam’s shoulder.

“Off, need’ta piss,” Nick muttered, and Sam rolled off, too far, and landed on the floor. Nick stepped over him and went to the bathroom to relieve himself. By the time he got back, Sam had passed out. Nick muttered wordlessly to himself and got the blanket off the couch on his way to Sam. He threw the blanket over him then got down beside him, not bothering to get under and curling up tightly against Sam’s back. It was comfortable enough, and Nick was out before he even realized it.

\--

“Did we get into a fight last night?” Sam asked the next morning, way too fucking loud. Nick glared blackly at him over his coffee, sipping it instead of responding. Sam downed the hangover meds and washed them back with his own coffee, hissing at the burn of bitterness on his tongue.

“Seems like it,” Nick said eventually. Everything hurt. He’d woken up with a torn lip and blood all over his goddamn face. Bruises were everywhere, his head pounded, and it took everything not to throw up by the time he crawled to the bathroom to clean up. He didn’t bother to check himself in the mirror, knowing too damn well from similar nights at the hand of alcohol to know he looked and smelled like shit dunked in No. 7.

Sam, to his pleasure, looked easily as awful. So he wasn’t alone in it again, thank fuck.

“Why?”

“Million dollar question,” Nick said with a shrug.

“What did you do?”

Nick snapped his head up, too fast, and groaned, rubbing his temple. “Why do you think it was my fault?”

Sam gave him a look which reminded Nick of the bar fights he knows Sam saw him get into, and how it was definitely his fault most of the time. But Nick was a stubborn and had a good hold of his pride.

“I can’t remember shit,” Nick said after a moment, honestly, and Sam, good smart boy that he is, accepted it with a slow nod. It was comforting to know that even stupid, pretty boy geniuses like him knew when to let a sleeping dog lie.

“Neither can I,” Sam agreed. “I hurt.” He added. “You wanna get breakfast?”

“You buying?”

“Why not?” Sam sighed, getting to his feet. “I’ll buy it,”

 


End file.
